Sweet Love (31 page)

Indeed, I will be attending most of my mother’s rehab sessions, learning how to feed her safely, helping her go to the bathroom, giving her a bath, checking her blood pressure, and administering various drugs once she’s out of Riverhead. It’s an exhausting assignment and my inner child is whining that I’m too young for this.

I know because I’ve been supervising some sessions already. The other day I was watching two orderlies help Mom out of the chair and found it so stressful I had to get up and walk away. So was seeing her try to take one step, one teeny tiny baby step, as she held on to the rails supported on either side by men strong enough to catch her if she fell—which she did, much to her discouragement.

During a particularly trying session when Mom is tired and fed up, Doria the social worker stops by and nods for us to go into the hall. “How’s your mom?” she asks.

“Not good. She’s getting discouraged and depressed.”

Doria nods and brushes some lint off my shirt. “They’ve talked to you about depression, right?”

“Not really.”

“It’s a common complaint. Wouldn’t you be depressed if you were her?” She juts her chin to the doorway where Mom, her right arm shaking, can’t go on. “Keep an eye on that. You’re not in any pain with a stroke, except here.” She places her hand on her heart. “We have pills for that.”

Doria’s words come back to haunt me one afternoon when I’m hanging around looking at a magazine while a therapist gives Mom a reading test. The therapist points to a large word on the wall that says simply, SUN.

Mom squints and her mouth moves.

“Mmmm,” Mom starts, bluffing. “Is it . . . man?”

I look up from my magazine, troubled. “She can’t read?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.” The therapist purses her lips. “Not doing too good, Mrs. Mueller?”

“Not doing too well,” Mom corrects. “Good is wrong.”

The therapist slaps the pointer to the wall. “Come on, Betty. One more try. What’s this say?”

Sun. It says sun
. I’m practically out of my chair with agony.

“Can’t do it,” Mom says. “Oh, God, I can’t read,” she says, hanging her head as a lone tear drips down her cheek. Feebly she lifts her other hand, the “good hand” to wipe it away.

“Stop!” I yell, though I’m supposed to sit still. I know the rules. The therapist gives a sharp look to remind me. If I can’t behave during these sessions, I will be asked to leave.

“That’s my daughter,” Mom mumbles. “She’s a
good
girl.”

I could say the same about Em during her first meeting with Mom since the stroke, a visit that proves to be a test of my abilities to simultaneously be the reassuring mother and unafraid daughter.

“Just remember,” I tell Em as we pad down the familiar hallway of fourth-floor intensive care, “that your grandmother’s still there, somewhere. It’s a hardware problem, not a software issue.”

Em, surprisingly tan considering Maine’s tendency to be rainy and miserable, says, “Mom, please. Stroke. Brain damage. I get it. I’m fully prepared.”

I don’t know what happened to this kid during her brief stay in Maine, but she came back a woman, not the flighty flibbertigibbet who used to daydream her mornings away. Her suitcase returned neat and orderly, all items washed. She didn’t forget anything, not even her cell phone, which she’s constantly leaving at school or dropping in someone’s car. And she has plans.

It stings to admit that this might have been Donald’s doing. His psychiatric specialty is adolescents, after all, and from what little Em’s described, he went out of his way to spend serious one-on-one time with her. They took the boat and explored a few islands, picked blueberries, and dived off rocks. He taught her how to water-ski and fish and, in between, he gently got to the bottom of her fears about college and her future.

Meanwhile, Em, being Betty Mueller’s granddaughter, brought Angus to hand by imposing what he sorely needed—a schedule. Up at eight, dressed and outside by nine, swimming, lunch, reading, a hike around, dinner at six, bath by eight-thirty. In the beginning he held his breath and kicked his heels against her shins. In the end, he begged her not to go home.

Now I have this daughter, this strong, tall, beautiful woman, who is of the opinion that if she can take on a spoiled, hyperactive, indulged five-year -old for a week, she can take on the world. And I have an ex-husband who’s finally seen the light and who wants his daughter to be more of a presence in his daily life.

We may not get what we want, when we want. But with a bit of perseverance and a lot of patience, we can get what we need.

So, emboldened by gifts of lime glacè and other “sweets,” as my mother requested, I lead Em in to Mom’s room. Mom is in a wheelchair, staring out the window, her left side slack‚ and doesn’t turn when we enter. I can sense Em tensing with fear.

“Guess what?” I chirp, giving Em’s hand a squeeze. “You’re getting sprung soon. Dr. McKinley says one more MRI to make sure the bleeding’s stopped and she’ll let you go.”

“That’s swell.” Mom picks at nothing on her lemon-yellow blouse. That blouse must be getting pretty rank by now. I should try to steal it for the wash, though I bet she won’t let me take it off her. “Am I going to Green Forest?”

“No. Riverhead.” She hasn’t noticed Em is here.

“Aunt Charlotte will be disappointed. She doesn’t know how to get there. It would be so much more convenient at Green Forest. Did you call?”

Em whispers, “Aunt Charlotte?”

This Aunt Charlotte thing has got to stop. The nurses tell me it’s only her brain acting up, but it’s gone on too long.

Finding that I’m naturally inclined to shout when my mother’s like this, I bark, “Mother. You haven’t said hello to Em. She’s back from Maine.”

“And I brought dessert like you asked.” Em tentatively holds out the lime glacé. “How are you, Grandma?”

Mom swivels her good eye toward Em and breaks into a half smile of joy. “Emmaline! You’re back. How was that naughty little Angus?”

See, this is what I don’t get. As I set up the tray for lunch while Mom and Emmaline chat about the blueberries and Nadia’s blubbery attempts at water skiing, I try to reconcile why one minute Mom’s griping about Aunt Charlotte and the next she remembers Angus and that day when Nadia tried to learn how to skateboard.

“Emmaline tells me she’s thinking of Vassar,” Mom says, delighted. “Women’s studies.”

“Yes. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Only the third most expensive school in the country, of course. The child always did have expensive taste.

Shaking out a fresh napkin and tucking it under Mom’s chin, I wheel up a tray and present her with the array of gourmet treats. Puréed yams with ginger. Puréed broccoli with aged Parmesan. And, for dessert, the lime glacé with champagne from D’Ours’s cookbook. A palate refresher, normally, but what the hell. I don’t expect I’ll be violating any Mt. Olive culinary standards.

Mom says, “You’ve bought a Cuisinart.”

“I have.”

“About time. Those machines are godsends.”

I hand her the spoon and let her feed herself. She has trouble deciding which yummy Tupperware to start with, so I nudge the puréed yams in her direction.

“There’s an opportunity . . . ,” I begin, hesitating. “I’ve got a job offer.”

Mom dips the spoon into the yams and then puts it down. “What kind of job offer?”

“It would be helping out on a cooking show.” The way her brain works, I’ll no doubt have to repeat this every day, so I should learn to keep it short. “It’s with the chef who taught our dessert classes.”

“D’Ours?”

Again I’m hopeful. Maybe she will get through this and be normal again someday. “That’s right. He’s getting his own show on The Food Channel:
D’Ours, D’Jour.”

“What will you do?”

Em blurts, “She’s going to cook. Can you believe it?”

Mom glances at Em in disbelief. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“No, I’m totally serious, Grandma. D’Ours thinks viewers will relate to Mom and do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because she’s so bad.”

My mother’s body convulses softly. It’s laughter! When was the last time I saw my mother laugh? “Your mother’s such a bad cook,” she echoes. “It’s funny because it’s true.”

“Not so fast, you two,” I say, lifting Saran Wrap off the lime glacé. “Try this. It’s from his cookbook.”

“Do I dare?” Mom asks, playing up to Em.

“What have you got to lose?” Em says, and I wince. Tasteless, Em, tasteless.

But Mom doesn’t mind. Shooting a finger at her, she says, “Right you are. I can’t get much worse. Okay, I’ll try it.”

Dipping into the glacé, Mom tries a bit and nods. “Very good. You might not be so bad on that show as you think, Julie.”

Actually, I think I’ve improved quite a bit, thank you very much. But no matter, there are more pressing issues to deal with today.

“The thing is, Mom,” I say. “I’d have to be gone two weeks for every month to live in L.A.”

Mom points the spoon at Em. “What about Emmaline?”

“Oh, I’m cool,” Em volunteers. “Dad and I worked it all out and it’s not like I’ll have to change schools. Mom’s more worried about you, Grandma.”

“She is?” Her one eye goes wide. “That’s silly. Go. Go.” She shushes me with her good hand. “I don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do,” I say. “Paul’s not going to be around. He’s heading back to Manhattan any day.”

“I don’t care. I have Alonzo. He’ll take care of me while you’re gone.” Helping herself to another, larger spoonful of the glacé, she says‚ “Is that champagne?”

But I’m still processing the Alonzo bulletin. “Who’s Alonzo?”

“Oh, he’s a little Italian man. Very delightful. He’s in room 304 and sometimes he comes down at night and sleeps in my bed.”

“Holy shit,” Em cries, immediately slapping her hand over her mouth. “I mean, holy
crow
.”

“Really, Mom,” I say, alarmed. “That’s weird.”

“Don’t be so shocked. I like it. He’s very warm.”

“Would you excuse me?” I get up and take Em aside. “Watch her while I go out of the room. If she starts to choke, ring the buzzer.”

Em nods and I fly out of there, burning carpet to hunt down this Alonzo character.

Nurse Kennedy is on duty coming out of 302. I pass her and go straight to 304‚ but the room is empty.

“Something I can help you with, Julie?” she asks. Kennedy’s a striking woman in her late fifties with high cheekbones and a proud demeanor.

“My mother said this patient named Alonzo in 304’s been coming into her bed at night. That’s gotta stop.”

Kennedy clicks a pen and tucks it in her breast pocket. “Your father asked me about him this morning and I told him there is no patient named Alonzo. It’s the same thing with your Aunt Charlotte. Your mother has a head injury. I know she can seem normal at times, but at others she’s not thinking clearly.”

“Are you sure he’s not real? Because she says he’s . . .”

“Very warm.” Kennedy smiles knowingly. “You’re mother’s a kick. Everyone thinks so.”

Mom as a kick. Who knew?

Em’s reading a magazine and Mom’s on the phone when I return, her Tupperware dishes barely touched—except for the lime sherbet with champagne. That, she devoured.

“That Liza,” Mom says, hanging up. “Such a pistol. I’ll miss her. Say, do you think Mario can fit me in? My hair’s a mess and I’m embarrassed to have your father see me like this.”

I don’t understand her. How can she care about something as silly as her hair when something as important as her brain keeps short-circuiting?

“I’m sure they’ll have hairdressers at Riverhead. And then, before you know it, you’ll be home and I’ll drive you down to Mario’s myself.”

“Not if you take that job out in California.” Mom’s back to picking at her yellow blouse again. “You’ll be gone for good.”

So soon I have to explain this again. So
soon
. “I will not. It’s two weeks out of every month. Dad can take care you. Or Em will drive you.”

“No problem, Grandma.”

“I dunno.” She looks out the window, staring at nothing. “Be a sport and wheel me down to the gift shop, would ya? Lois took me earlier and I found the perfect gift for Emmaline’s birthday.”

I remind her that Em’s birthday isn’t until September.

Mom lifts her finger to her lips. “Shh. She’s right there. Don’t ruin the surprise.”

“You two go,” Em says. “I’ll stay here and wait for my prezzy.”

“Atta girl.” And Mom pats Em’s knee as I wheel her into the hallway. “You’ll never believe what Lois and I found, Julie. Sapphire earrings. That’s Emmaline’s birthstone, you know. A single pearl and sapphire combination. Very adult. The kind of earring she’ll be able to wear at a black-tie cocktail party. She’s turning eighteen, you know.”

Yap, yap, yap. For a woman who’s half paralyzed, she sure can talk your ear off, I think as I punch the button for the elevator and we head to the first floor.

The gift shop is jam-packed with stuffed animals, a case of cut flowers, balloons, and clothes to make patients more comfortable—socks and wraps. There are only a few earrings and those are rather chintzy-looking crosses and fake pearls.

“Pearl and sapphire?” The volunteer at the counter acts impressed. “Don’t I wish. Afraid not. That sounds more like something you’d find in a real jewelry store.”

Mom is handling a brown bear with a big red heart that orders LOVE! “They don’t have them,” I tell her. “They never did.”

“They did so. I saw them. I even pointed them out to Lois.”

“Nope. Must have been something else. Either that or . . .” Or you’re brain is playing tricks on you again, “. . . or someone bought them already.”

“That must have been it. Too bad,” Mom says as I wheel her out of the store and back to the elevator. “Aunt Charlotte agreed they’d be perfect for her. She used to have a pair exactly like that and they were lovely.”